


The Baldor Chapters

by obscuresymbolism



Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Minor Character Death, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:55:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25756966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obscuresymbolism/pseuds/obscuresymbolism
Summary: Several snippets of what is going on with Baldor while he watches his childhood friend and crush move a village and become a warrior.
Relationships: Roran Garrowson & Baldor Horstsson
Kudos: 3





	The Baldor Chapters

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate title: It’s My Fanfic and I Can Shoehorn Homoerotic Subtext Into the Source Material In Order to Justify It If I Want To. 
> 
> This is based on such little textual evidence that, to be quite honest, we could swap Baldor out for Albriech and I’d still say it makes total sense. The only reason it’s not about him is because I cannot rely on myself to spell Albriech correctly every time, and I noticed there could be some Grade A pining in the later books if I stuck with Blador.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baldor travels to Therinsford to inform Roran of the “accident” on the farm and deals with some of the fallout.

Every hoofbeat was agony, yet Baldor still rode forward, trying to ignore the worry and disbelief that occupied his thoughts. He had to. If he did not, it would be that much harder to do what was necessary in Therinsford. He could not let his own feelings on the matter color his words, no matter how conflicted they were. 

He barely noticed the distance he covered from Carvahall, nor the time it took, nor his brother’s solemn company as they rode onward to break the news to Roran. With every mile they crossed, Baldor rehearsed and re-rehearsed and scrapped and re-worked how he was going to tell Roran of his father’s accident and the total destruction of his farm. For the most part, they rode in silence.

The whole affair was strange and mysterious, and Blador still did not know what to think. No mere barn fire could have caused such destruction – not to the house, and not on Garrow’s land. Roran’s land, Baldor could not help but correct himself. He felt ashamed for doing so, but suspected it would be Roran’s before long. It would require a miracle for Garrow to survive his injuries, let alone recover wholly from them. Since miracles were hard to come by in Palancar valley, as the saying went, Baldor did not hold out much hope. Roran might have already inherited the scorched ruins of his childhood home, but they would have to wait until their return to Carvahall to find out. 

It was thoughts like these that Baldor was trying to keep at bay. Dark, sobering thoughts that he did not want Roran to guess at the moment he walked into the mill, even though he probably would. He had promised Roran’s little cousin that he would break the news gently – but he was at a loss as to how. Just as he had been doing for hours, Baldor reviewed the facts of the situation in the hopes that they would shed some light on how to proceed. So far, they had not. But it might be worth a zillionth shot, Baldor tried to convince himself. 

As far as he understood, Roran had left Carvahall just days before, although it felt like longer to Baldor, since it was the longest he had gone without seeing Roran. Then, two days before he and Albriech set out on this their dash to Therinsford, the house in which Garrow and Eragon lived had – caught fire? Exploded? Spontaneously combusted? Those facts were unclear. What was clear was that Eragon was able to pull Garrow from the rubble and bring him most of the way to town, where several villagers found them and took them to Gertrude. When he and Albriech left to fetch Roran home, Eragon was up and recovering, while Garrow – 

Baldor didn’t want to tell Roran about his father’s fever, nor the burns that wouldn’t heal, nor the delirium that gripped him. The destruction, the fire – everything Roran stood to inherit destroyed in an afternoon – none of that was as important as Garrow’s life. Which only made it more difficult to rehearse the way he intended to break the news to Roran. 

As Baldor and Albriech approached the outskirts of Therinsford, Baldor wished two simultaneous wishes. Primarily, he wished none of this had happened. It was a foolish wish, but he wished it anyway. He would wish it over and over in the coming months, although he did not yet know it. Beyond that, he wished he had stayed in Carvahall long enough to find out more of the truth from Eragon about what had happened. He suspected his mother and father could get Eragon talking, and probably had by now. 

At last they came upon the mill. It was a low structure built partially over the river, with a small house attached on the closer bank. In front, despite the early hour and heavy mist, they spied Roran, hard at work loading a cart of heavy sacks to take into town. Despite the cold, he wore only his shirt and trousers as he worked – an observation Baldor tried to ignore. It was not the first time he had seen Roran in such relative undress, nor even the least dressed he had seen Roran, but given the circumstances he thought it was rude to admire Roran’s body. He hoped Albriech did not notice the blush that suffused his face as Roran tossed what must have been twenty five pounds of flour onto the cart one sack at a time. But Baldor couldn't help wondering if Roran had developed more muscles since he left Carvahall. It hadn't been _that_ long since he left, yet he somehow seemed bigger, stronger.

His thoughts were interrupted by his brother’s voice. “Do you want to do the talking, or shall I?” 

“I will,” Baldor said. “I promised Eragon.”

As if he heard them speak, Roran paused loading the cart and looked in their direction for the first time. He shielded his eyes against the cold morning dawn. Albreich waved halfheartedly, to which Roran did not respond. He watched as they approached, probably grateful for a moment's rest, and probably wary of two men appearing unannounced from the mist. Baldor took a deep breath and returned to the facts he did know, in some vain hope that some piece of knowledge had escaped his notice, and that by noticing it now, he could glean more information to make the task ahead less unpleasant. 

When they were finally within earshot, Albreich and Baldor dismounted, and Albriech fell back to give his brother some space to talk. Baldor glanced back at him, but he only gave a slight nod and stopped walking. There would be no expecting help from him, Baldor realized. That was just as well. Albriech had a tendency to stammer and muddle his words when he was under stress, although some backup would be nice.

“Roran!” Baldor greeted his friend. Almost before he spoke, the neutral curiosity on Roran's face shifted into confusion.

“Baldor?” Roran asked, stepping toward him from behind the cart. “Albriech?” His confusion gave way to a pleased surprise, which almost immediately crashed into uncertainty and fear. Roran was not an idiot. They both knew that this could be no pleasure trip. Baldor’s presence in Therinsford either meant a miracle had occurred, or a tragedy, and miracles were notoriously hard to come by in Palancar Valley. “What are you doing here?”

From the way he spoke, Baldor wasn’t sure Roran wanted the answer to his question. His eyes darted between the brothers and their horses, searching for some hidden clue. The words stuck in Baldor’s throat, and he took another deep breath to steady himself. 

“What’s happened, Baldor?” asked Roran in a stern whisper. 

“You need to come home,” Baldor choked out. As he spoke, his voice grew more steady and sure of his words. “Your family needs you. We can leave as soon as you’re packed.” 

Roran did not move, nor did he make any sign that he intended to. He grew completely still, listening with a deadly intensity that Blador would become all too accustomed to in the coming weeks. He cleared his throat and continued.

“A couple of days ago – two days before we came to fetch you – there was some kind of accident at the farm.” 

“What kind?” Roran snapped.

“I don’t really know. They might know by now, though. Eragon had just come around when we left, and he’s probably the only one that was there besides your father. There was a fire –" 

“Are they okay?” Roran’s body was as tight as a bowstring. He looked as if he might snap, but he somehow kept the tension out of his voice. He did not move an inch, perhaps for fear of missing some comforting detail Baldor might tell him, though he did not know none existed. Roran was a prisoner of the tale he wove, which was not playing out how it had been rehearsed. 

“Eragon and your father are at our house with Gertrude. Mother and Katrina are helping her take care of them. Eragon is recovering quickly, given the circumstances, but your father – Gertrude is doing her best, but his fever hadn’t broken by the time we left. His progress hasn’t been what she hoped for.” 

Through gritted teeth, as if he were fighting Garrow’s pain himself, Roran asked, “How bad?” When Baldor hesitated, Roran swore and struck the side of the cart with his fist. “How bad, Baldor?” 

They both knew. Baldor could see in Roran’s eyes that he knew. He and Albriech wouldn’t be there if things were better. Yet some hope still burned somewhere in Roran’s heart, and he needed to hear his fears spoken aloud.

Quietly, Baldor told him. “Garrow ought to have died in the fire. It’s a miracle he’s alive, and that should be hope enough, but he isn’t well.” He regretted the anguish that passed over Roran’s terrified face. “He was still fighting when he left. Gertrude is still optimistic, and Garrow isn’t one to give up so easily.” 

A grim acceptance settled over Roran’s face. “Yet they sent you here to fetch me,” he said, almost under his breath. Then, loud enough for Albriech to hear as well, he said, “Don’t go anywhere. We’ll leave as soon as I talk to Dempton.” 

With that, Roran strode off to the house behind the mill. 

~

The ride back was tense and interminable, but they arrived back in Carvahall shortly after sunset a few days later. Baldor purposely took the road that did not pass the remains of Garrow’s farm, and instead lead them down the longer route to his home in town. His boots had hardly touched the ground before Roran leapt from his horse and tossed Albriech the reins. He was inside in a flash.

Baldor was relieved to see the lights were still on, which undoubtedly meant someone was awake and waiting for them. His hands shook with nervous energy as he tried to unsaddle his horse. It was impossible to focus on the task – anything could be happening in the house, and Baldor wanted to be there for whatever it was, for Roran, and to get some answers. 

“Go,” Albriech said. “I see you trying to look through the windows. Just go. I’ll finish up out here.”

“I’ll help. It’ll go faster and you can go in, too.”

“I don’t want to be anywhere near all that,” Albriech said, gesturing with the saddle in his hands toward the house. “It’s only bad news. I can feel it.”

Baldor thanked his brother and set off for the house. He forced himself to walk, even though his whole body ached to run. 

Inside, Roran stood with clenched fists by the kitchen table, his back to the door. Elain, Baldor’s mother, stood beside him with a hand on his shoulder. She looked at him with such an expression of sorrow that Baldor sensed what had happened. Horst, his father, sat across from them, facing the door, equally focused on Roran. When he saw Baldor enter, and noted the questioning look in his eye, he frowned and shook his head ever so slightly, and a weight settled in Baldor's stomach as he realized what had happened while they were gone. 

If Roran noticed the action, or heard Baldor enter, he did not react. “I want to see him,” was all he said, his chin nearly touching his chest as he tried to control his grief. 

“He’s upstairs with Gertrude,” said Elain. “She’s already prepared him for the burial, so –“

“I don’t care,” Roran snapped. “I want to see him.” 

Silently, Elain gestured toward the stairs and followed Roran up. Horst and Baldor listened for their footstep to cross into the room where Gertrude kept vigil over Garrow’s body before either dared to speak. 

“When did it happen?” Baldor asked at last. 

“Day after you left,” Horst told him. “Wasn’t anything more Gertrude could do. She said – and given the state of that farm, I’m inclined to believe – there was something not quite natural about the wounds. They weren’t the same as Eragon’s, and weren’t healing right.” 

“Did you find out what happened?” 

“We’ll talk tomorrow, when Roran’s had a little rest. You should go help your mother get the room ready for him.” 

“How’s Eragon?” Baldor asked. 

Horst’s already grim face grew even more somber. “Disappeared,” he growled. “Plain up and went.” He stood suddenly and made for the stairs. “Don’t ask me about it just now. I’m liable to start yelling. Go help your brother or something.” 

With that, Horst stomped upstairs, leaving Baldor alone in the kitchen with the terrible news. 

~

Close to midnight, Baldor found himself alone once more, this time in his own dark bedroom. The events of the last few hours swirled around in his head, making sleep impossible. After he had helped Albriech finish bedding down the horses and unpacking their traveling gear, Elain had sat them both down in the kitchen and explained in a soft voice everything that had happened since they left. If she was as furious about Eragon’s disappearance as Horst was, she did not show it except in the way her lips tightened and face paled when she described how they discovered he had left down with the old storyteller Brom. 

It was all almost too much. Baldor lay on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, wondering how Roran could possibly bear all of this. He wished, once again, that none of this had happened. _If only, if only…_ But “if only” was not enough. Only a miracle could make things right again, or close to right. Even an elusive miracle could not bring back Garrow, though it might bring back Eragon or rebuild the farm. 

While Baldor stewed in his thoughts, he heard growing whispers in the hall outside his room. Curious, crept to the door and cracked it open hear better. Huddled together outside the closed door across the hallway, he and saw his mother and father in close conference. They both shot distressed glances at the room in which Roran sat over Garrow’s body as they spoke.

“—worried for him,” Elain was saying. “The poor thing needs rest after the day he’s had…whatever rest he can get.”

“I can’t very well pick him up and move him,” Horst whispered back. He sighed heavily and shook his head, cutting off Elain’s response. “It’s no use talking to him again. He won’t hear anything.” 

“He can’t stay there all night,” she insisted.

“What’s the matter?” Baldor whispered, tiptoeing down the hall to his parents. “How’s Roran?” 

Horst gestured to the closed door. “He’s in there, falling asleep where he sits, but refusing to go to bed. We’ve both tried getting him up, but it’s no use.” 

“He needs _sleep_ , especially after the shock and journey he’s had,” whispered Elain. “He’s determined to keep watch all night. Without _some_ rest, there’s no telling what state of mind—“ she cut herself off with a choked sob. “I hate to see him like this,” she gasped. 

Baldor put a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll take care of it,” he said. 

Inside, in what before was Albriech’s room, was dark, except for one guttering candle next to Garrow’s deathbed. Roran sat on his heels, head bobbing as he drifted off, then jerked himself awake again. On the bed was Garrow’s corpse, wrapped tightly in his shroud and perfumed heavily with dried herbs. The whole room smelled of sickly floral decay. 

Roran was bent so low at the edge of the bed, his forehead almost touched the mattress. His hands were still clasped together at Garrow’s shoulder, as if he had been in the act of prayer when exhaustion struck him. If he was awake, he did not stir when Baldor entered. 

The change that had come over Roran was a humbling reminder of the power of grief. He looked like a shell of his former self. All the vitality was gone from his limbs, which hours before baldor believed could have carried him here form Therinsford on their own. Now, it seemed Roran did not have even the strength to carry himself across the room into the empty chair upon which were still some of Gertrude’s healing salves. 

Baldor went to him and knelt with him at Garrow’s side, close enough to feel Roran’s body heat, but not so that they were touching. They sat in silence for a while, simply keeping vigil over Garrow, until the candle finally spent itself and Baldor spoke. 

“When I was eight, back before you all moved to the farm, I got into a fight with a group of kids here in town,” he said. He felt Roran tense at the memory of their move, and regretted the detail – his mother had still been alive at the time. It only served to remind Roran he had no family left. Still, determined to finish the work he had started, Baldor continued. “I got the shit thoroughly kicked out of me. I came around your house because I knew if I went home, I would only get into trouble for fighting. I just needed some place to lick my mounds in peace, and hoped you would help me get revenge.” 

Roran was listening now. He no longer dipped in and out of sleep. He did not look at Baldor, but his posture grew less languid as Baldor spoke, and his chin turned slightly toward him, as if to hear him better.

“But when I got to your house, you weren’t there. You had gone off with Eragon and your mother somewhere, and it was just your father home. When he answered the door, I was so afraid of what he might do to me – might turn me in to my parents, or yell at me for fighting. But all he did was invite me in. He helped me take care of my injuries, and didn’t say anything the whole time. No questions, no admonishments, nothing. 

“When he finished, he just looked at me and said, ‘You’re old enough to know that you should always try to solve disagreements by talking, but you’re also old enough to know that such a thing isn’t always possible. As long as you keep a level head, and only fight to defend yourself or others, you have nothing to be ashamed of.’

“I think about what he did for me a lot. There’s no one like him in all of Palancar Valley.” 

Baldor glanced away from Garrow’s body and saw that Roran was in tears. He wanted nothing more than to take Roran in his arms and hold him so tightly that all the sorrow would squeeze out of him – but instead he gently placed a hand on Roran’s shoulder.

“Do you intend to keep vigil all night? I could fill in for you if you wanted to get some rest.” 

“I don’t need sleep,” Roran snapped, angrily wiping away his tears. “I’m fine.” 

“Of course,” Baldor said. He pressed Roran’s shoulder as he spoke, and Roran responded by untangling his stiff fingers and pressing Baldor’s hand back. They sat like that in silence again for a few moments, taking comfort in each other’s presence. Baldor knew that Roran would speak when he was ready, and that he only needed someone to give him time and space to grieve. Horst and Elain – they were good at kind words and offering verbal comfort. But Baldor also knew there was nothing anyone could say to ease Roran’s pain, so instead opted for the quiet commiseration which he now shared with his devastated friend. He tried to communicate, through his hand on Roran’s shoulder, that he would be there whenever Roran was ready.

“Gertrude says we have to bury him tomorrow morning. She says it will rain, so we have to do it early,” Roran said at last, spitting each word through gritted teeth. “The family is supposed to have three days to watch over the body, but I only have one night.”

“I’m sure it can wait until you’re ready,” Baldor said. They both knew that was not true as soon as he said it. No amount of dried lavender could disguise the smell of decomposing flesh, no matter how well the body had been prepared. It had to be tomorrow, and the earlier the better. 

“I’ll never be ready,” Roran said. “But I can’t keep him here forever.” 

“Maybe you could tell me a story about him,” Baldor said. “Brom always told us that stories keep the departed with us, remember?” 

Roran’s tears only came faster. “I don’t think I can,” he said between choked sobs. His body seemed to crumple inward. Alarmed, Baldor grabbed him by the shoulders and held him up. 

“Come on,” he said as gently as possible. “Let’s you into bed.” Roran tried to protest, but Baldor quieted him with a squeeze about the shoulders. “If you get some rest, you’ll be better able to honor your father tomorrow.” 

He braced himself for Roran’s response when his whole body tensed, as if to throw him off. After a moment, possibly because it would take too much energy to fight him, Roran merely dropped his hands into his lap.

“You’re right,” he muttered in defeat. He allowed Baldor to help him up, and together they left Garrow’s deathbed.

Stumbling like a drunkard, Roran let Baldor guide him across the hallway into the other bedroom, where Albriech ought to have been but was not. Elain and Horst had long since left the hallway, although Baldor suspected they had eavesdropped on their conversation for a while before. He did not much care where they had gone, nor where his brother was. In reality, he was a little relieved that Roran would have some privacy.

Roran did not prostest as Baldor began helping him undress. Now that he was sitting comfortably, he drifted in and out of sleep as Baldor carefully unlaced and removed his boots and socks. That done, he gently removed Roran’s coat, and tugged at the front of his shirt. When he made no move to help, Baldor inhaled and pulled his shirt tails out of his trousers waist. As he reached around Roran to un-tuck the back of his shirt, and as he lingered just a moment to savor their not-quite contact, Roran surprised him by leaning forward and resting his head on Baldor’s shoulder.

Baldor froze, unsure of whether or not Roran was awake, and if he intentionally leaned against him or not. He could feel Roran’s breath on his neck, and the tears that had not yet dried on his cheek soaking through his shirt. He stayed locked with his arms encircling Roran, so close and yet still not holding him, too afraid of waking him or wrapping him in an embrace he did not want. 

After a moment, Roran picked his head up and glanced around the room. Baldor, still afraid that Roran might have somehow read his mind and sensed his conflict, hurriedly finished un-tucking Roran’s shirt and stepped back. 

“Where’s Eragon sleeping?” Roran mumbled. He tried to focus his tired eyes on Baldor, with little success. 

Baldor’s stomach sank. He had assumed his parents had told Roran what happened, or hoped they had. Was he to be the bearer of bad news once again? He would have rather spent the night alone in the Spine without a campfire than have to explain to Roran that the only family he had left had fled from town, leaving his father unburied and so many questions unanswered. 

His distress must have been evident on his face, for in the few moments in which he debated how to proceed, Roran observed him all the while, and seemed to crumple from within. He sagged with the weight of his grief, unable to hold himself upright, and slumped onto his side.

“You said he was recovering,” Roran whispered. His vacant eyes, red with exhaustion and crying, stared at some point on the floor between the bed and Baldor’s feet. “You said he was recovering, Baldor,” he said again. There was no accusation in his voice, no anger, just that fact, and bitter grief at losing all the family he had left. 

“He was,” Baldor said at last, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s just…he’s left. He left town and nobody has seen hide nor hair of him for almost a week. I don’t know where he went or why, or for how long --”

Roran began to cry again, and Baldor could take it no longer. A powerful sense of pity and love overwhelmed him, and he climbed into the bed with Roran, taking him in his arms and holding him as tightly as he could while wept, and wept, and wept himself to sleep. Through the night Baldor stayed with him, and in his fitful sleep Roran clung to Baldor as if he were the only thing keeping him from slipping away into the shadows after his family. 


End file.
